Long May She Reign (22 page)

It had been very windy outside, and she balanced on her good leg long enough to lift her left hand and move her hair to cover as much of the gun-butt scar running up the side of her forehead as possible.

Her stomach hurt. And what she could smell of dinner didn't really smell delicious.

“The food's good here,” Tammy was saying—to her, it would appear—“but I guess you're used to
really
good food.”

That seemed unanswerable, so Meg just shrugged. The menu board posted at the bottom of the stairs indicated that tonight's offerings included roast turkey with stuffing, something called Tofurky, and vegetarian lasagna. Mashed potatoes, vegetable du jour, cranberry fruit salad, marble cake, that sort of thing. All of which sounded reasonable enough—that is, if a person had an appetite.

The line did move quickly, and she handed over her new ID card, which had been sent to the White House in her registration packet—the advance team had handled all of that, but the photo, from her high school yearbook, was not attractive—to be swiped through some little machine. She'd had a student ID at GW, too, but the only time she'd ever had to produce it was during her lone visit to the library, and the woman at the front desk had thought it was just about the funniest thing ever to be asking her for identification.

“Can you carry your tray by yourself?” Tammy asked. “Do you need help?”

Oh, hell, a
tray
. Fuck. It hadn't even crossed her mind to bring along her adaptive, one-handed tray, and she probably wouldn't have had the nerve to use it in public, anyway. “No, thanks, I'm all set,” Meg said, and draped her cane over her shoulder, hoping that people couldn't see how violently she was trembling, or how weak her knee was.

When she finally made it through the service line, her tray empty except for some vegetarian lasagna and a roll—she was too tired to attempt going over to the salad bar—some guy jumped up from his table, which made Kyle take three protective steps towards her.

“Can I take that for you?” the guy asked.

Take it where? Would he give it back? “Thanks,” Meg said, but shook her head. It was going to be a challenge to carry the damn thing through a crowded room, but with her left hand doing most of the work, and using her right forearm for shaky support, she could probably manage it.

Unless she tripped, or her foot flopped, or her knee gave out, or—but maybe it was borrowing trouble even to let any of those things cross her mind.

The dining hall had a huge wall of windows, with a nice view of the snow and trees, and Susan glanced at Garth and then selected a table as far away as possible from them, which wasn't easy, given the design of the room. Meg quickly chose a seat which would put her out of viewing range of as many people as possible. Paula and Kyle were at an adjoining table, with Larry well off to the right by the windows, and Martin—where the hell had he come from?—was standing near the beverage area. She couldn't see Garth, but he was probably busy coordinating everyone else's positions, and getting updates about whatever was happening with Ginette and the media, back at the dorm.

The sounds in the room seemed deafening—cacophonous, even—with competing conversations, and plates and silverware clattering. It seemed that almost everyone had just gotten back from a Dead Week winter break, which had left all of them full of energy and joie de vivre. And it also felt as though every single one of them was checking her out.

God, did her stomach hurt.

Dinner conversation was strained. When it was going
well
. Dirk came over to join them for a while, which helped a little—but, not much. Meg, for one, didn't have anything she wanted to say, so she just pretended to eat, and occasionally answered yes or no to a direct question. She really wanted—
needed
—a Coke, but that would entail getting up and crossing the room in front of most of the freshman class, and trying to get it back to the table without spilling anything, so she tried not to think about how thirsty she was. Her throat
wasn't
dry; it was entirely her imagination. She was just—nervous, not dehydrated. It would be fine.

Maybe.

People kept coming over—ostensibly to say hi to someone else at the table—but, somehow, conveniently, ended up getting introduced to her. Like, big god-damn deal, but there wasn't much she could do about it.

“Think you're going to like our little school?” some guy asked, jocose enough for her to find him immediately off-putting.

“It seems very nice,” Meg said, politely, not making eye contact. No point in encouraging him. Plus, everyone who approached the table stared at her bad hand, and she had to keep remembering to put it in her lap, out of sight.

Throughout most of this, Jesslyn was telling a very patient Tammy all about some incomprehensible math theorem, which had captured her imagination during their week off, and Meg decided to assume that she was eccentric, rather than disturbed—and also, possibly, some kind of prodigy, given her obvious passion for the subject.

An entire table of guys sitting nearby seemed to spend about ten minutes staring at her, then one of them said something, they all laughed, and a couple of high-fives were exchanged. Meg wanted to cringe, but she kept her face expressionless and made sure to display no reaction at all.

“They're a bunch of jerks,” Susan said, softly enough so that Meg was almost sure she was the only one who heard her. “Just ignore them.”

Easy for her to say.

“You know the Riemann Hypothesis, right?” Jesslyn said to Tammy, who bit her lip and shook her head—which Jesslyn seemed to find a shocking response.

Mary Elizabeth looked across the table at her. “So. Uh, what are you majoring in?”

Political science, in all likelihood, but she wasn't about to admit it. “I don't know,” Meg said. “What are you majoring in?”

“I don't know,” Mary Elizabeth said, somewhat defensive.

Meg shrugged. “Okay, then.”

A bright light—yes, that inimitable television klieg brightness—came beaming through the windows, and Tammy gasped.

“Are they allowed to do that?” she asked, automatically reaching up to straighten her hair.

“No,” Meg said, and frowned at her agents. Paula and Martin were already gone, and Kyle had jumped up to go after them. And Christ, now people were
really
staring. She was tempted to leave, and escape to the relative safety of the dorm, but then that, too, would be filmed for posterity. Or, at least, the next news cycle.

“I suppose they are going to take over the whole campus for the rest of the semester?” Mary Elizabeth asked, sounding hostile.

“I don't know,” Meg said, resisting the urge to ask exactly how
big
the campus was. “I certainly hope not.”

“I'm sure it's just because it's your first day,” Susan said, frowning so slightly at Mary Elizabeth that Meg almost missed it. “It'll die down.”

Unless, of course, someone tried to kill her, or something otherwise provocative.

“Oh, come on, Susan,” Mary Elizabeth said. “Are you going to tell me that you don't mind—”

This time, Susan's frown wasn't subtle.

When the rest of them had finally finished eating, and they all headed back to the dorm, she was surrounded again, at the edge of the quadrangle. Mary Elizabeth, Jesslyn, and Tammy immediately went into the building, and Susan hesitated, but then followed them.

“How was dinner?” one of the reporters asked, as a lot of microphones came towards her face, and Garth scowled and lifted his hands, gesturing for all of them to move back.

Oh, for God's sakes. And where the hell was Ginette? Why hadn't her father had Maureen stay behind, instead? Or better yet, Preston. Christ, it would be a treat to see
Linda
right about now. “The duck terrine was a little underdone,” Meg said.

Which resulted in the exact reaction of mingled confusion and amusement she'd anticipated.

“You're saying the food is bad?” one of them pressed her.

Typical. Jesus. No god-damn sense of humor. “Absolutely not,” Meg said. “The spinach timbales were on the money.”

Ginette, who had finally forged her way through the crowd to stand next to her, cleared her throat.

“What?” Meg said. “I mean, you know, they asked.”

Ginette raised her voice. “Miss Powers has had a very long day, and she isn't going to take any more questions.”

“Good as it was,” Meg said quietly, “a meal really isn't a meal without polenta.”

The reporters who heard that laughed, and Ginette shot her a look.

“Excuse me,” Meg said to the group in general. “I guess I'll see you all later.”

Or, preferably,
not
.

“What are you going to be doing now?” someone called out.

Brushing and flossing. “Unpacking,” Meg said. And writing them all “Bon Voyage” notes.

“Why didn't the President come here with you today?” one of them wanted to know.

Because of the god-damn media. And because, just possibly, she was busy running the country. “Well, there's our long-standing feud to consider,” Meg said, and Ginette glared at her.

A noticeable flurry of excitement ran through the crowd, and they surged closer, with more questions, in an attempt to explore what too many of them were foolish enough to believe might be a scoop. Not a lot of big leaguers out there tonight, apparently.

“Really, I have to go inside now. Good night,” Meg said, and ducked into the dorm, leaving Ginette to handle any further questions. Clean up the little mess she'd made.

A gawky guy on his way down the stairs mumbled an indistinct hello, which she returned just as ineptly.

She was just coming out of the bathroom, having, in fact, brushed her teeth, when she met Ginette in the hallway.

“I'll be here in town until the bulk of them leave,” she said, tight-lipped and somewhat out of breath, “and from now on, you can just refer all questions directly to me.”

Meg moved her jaw. “I don't need anyone to run interference.”

“Well, yes,” Ginette said, taking off beige calfskin gloves one finger at a time, “I realize that, but—”

But what? Meg looked down at her splint, considering—just considering—losing her temper.

“Sometimes,” Ginette seemed to think that she was speaking with great tact, as opposed to being condescending, “people don't realize that the things they say are going to look and sound very different in—”

An Asian-American guy in a rugby shirt, and a much shorter, curly-haired Caucasian guy wearing a Seahawks cap came bursting out of the stairwell, laughing about something, although they stopped when they saw her, ducked their heads, and hurried past them into Sage D.

“I've been doing this for a pretty long time,” Meg said, keeping her voice nice and calm. Since she was a damn
toddler
, in fact. “I think I've got it under control.”

Ginette started to contradict her, but then nodded.

“But, if you'd feel better,” Meg said, calm as can be, “you should run your concerns by Preston. We can go right in my room, and give him a call now, if you want.”

Ginette didn't say anything, but she was clearly insulted.

Okay, okay, that was immature. Meg shifted her weight, slipped, and grabbed for the wall—and, to her horror, Ed pretty much
lunged
out of the security room to make sure she was okay. Meg nodded a polite thank you, but edged away so that she could stand on her own, without any support. “Look,” she said to Ginette. “I'm really tired, my knee hurts like hell, my hand hurts even more, and I'm feeling a little short-tempered. I know that you—” she glanced at Ed—“all of you—are just trying to help, but I kind of need to figure out a way to live my life, you know?”

Which was going to include popping off to the press now and again.

Ginette nodded.

“Not that I don't appreciate your input,” Meg said. No point in having her go back to Washington in a snit about what a bitch the President's god-damned daughter was.

Ginette nodded.

Duly quelled. But she shouldn't have given into the temptation to pull out the “
Preston
trusts me” trump card. “Are you staying at the Inn?” she asked, trying to move the conversation onto more friendly ground. Which was just down the street.

“For the next couple of days, yes,” Ginette said.

“Okay,” Meg said. “I'm not going to be going out again tonight, and tomorrow, my classes start. Then, on Friday, I have to go to North Adams for physical therapy. Other than that, it'll probably just be a couple of walks down to the dining hall.”

All of which she was already dreading.

Ginette nodded.

Too
quelled. “Do you think the ravening horde is going to want to come with me?” Meg asked. “To the hospital, I mean.”

“Well—” Ginette looked unsure of herself. “I don't know. The ones who are still up here, perhaps.”

“Maybe you should ride along with me, just in case,” Meg said. Did that sound like an order, or an invitation? “I mean, if you want to, that is.”

“Of course,” Ginette said, regaining a trace of the normal efficiency in her tone. “Just have someone call over with your schedule whenever it's convenient.”

“Okay,” Meg said, and limped towards her room. “Good night.”

The only thing she felt like doing now, was going to bed, and
staying
there.

14

AS SHE UNLOCKED
her door, she was surprised to hear her phone ring. Except, of course, it would be one of her parents, checking in to see how she was. She had a line to use for routine school-related matters, another one for casual friends and acquaintances, and a third extra-secure number to give out only to her closest friends, while the drop-line was reserved solely for her family, and maybe Preston and Dr. Brooks. This seemed to be the third line ringing, which meant that, other than Trudy, it could really only be one person.